


A Thousand Miles From Comfort

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bilbo knows what he wants, Fingerfucking, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Bottom, Rimming, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Company have reached the last part of their journey, and soon they will lay their eyes upon their home once again. The night ahead calls for celebration, and among drinking men and singing dwarves and one dancing hobbit, it is easy for one's worries to go unnoticed. Thorin Oakenshield has firmly decided to drown his sorrows in ale and see what tomorrow shall bring, but someone else has decided that that is an entirely silly thing to do, especially since there are much better ways to spend the night, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right, well. This is what happens when I attempt to write a purely pwp oneshot - something that can only be called a very unkempt character study, followed by thousands upon thousands of excruciatingly detailed smut. I'll get better at this with time, I promise - for now I'm just proud of myself for managing to give it at least some sort of readable form. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. Hope you'll enjoy it!

Thrice welcomed into the damp and dreary town of Men at last, the Company are ushered into one of the cleaner halls, though the splendor of it had faded a long time ago under the weight of stale, humid air, tainted by the ever-present smell of tar and fish. Certainly it does not compare to what lies the span of a lake away – even though the mountain halls are now naught but an echo of what they once held, their light long since extinguished, they are still preserved in Thorin's memory in all their exquisite detail, brilliant colors and the gleam of boundless riches. He would fight for no less, no less than the chance to see the great chandeliers lit again, see the forges come alive and the stone spread and sing with the heat. He _will_ make that happen when the time comes, but for now... he shall celebrate.

They've come this far, and even though Thorin will not rest until their goal is achieved, there is much to be thankful for tonight, much to drink to. They are offered new clothes, the grandest the city can muster, and more importantly, food and drink. Dwarves are not ones to second-guess a feast, but Thorin knows he's not the only one remembering the very obvious poverty they'd witnessed outside the Master's halls, and the irony of the amounts of food now produced seemingly out of nowhere. Still, they eat.

The Master himself is a profoundly unpleasant character, and Thorin is glad for Balin's company as they discuss their plans with the man. Even gladder when it becomes obvious that once he's reassured his (not exactly grand) expenses will be repaid once Erebor stands reclaimed, The Master concerns himself mostly with drinking, leaving the Dwarves to their own devices. After much cheer, Thorin lets his companions coax him into giving a speech, which is not something he's necessarily too good at, but they're all quite simply very happy to be alive, the end of their quest in sight, and one doesn't need very many difficult words to describe that.

Thorin's eyes travel over the faces of his Company, already scattered amongst the Men, sharing in their mirth – exchanging a nod here, a smile there, he reassures them that resting and letting go is more than allowed for this one night, and is in turn reassured of their support and gratitude. Somewhere in the midst of describing the insurmountable odds they've had to endure, his gaze settles on their burglar, wedged in between Dori and Bofur, stuffing his face with a vigor to rival any dwarf's. The sight brings a broader smile to Thorin's face.

“...And as prepared as we were to face the worst, I do believe we would have still been stuck in the dreadful Mirkwood if it weren't for the most unlikely addition to our Company – Master Baggins.”

A cheer rises, then laughter as Bofur elbows the oblivious halfling in the ribs, ' _That's you!_ ', and Bilbo manages to choke on his food.

“I myself was quick to doubt him at first,” Thorin continues clearly while Bilbo looks around as if to determine he's really speaking about him, “but he has proven himself a worthy member of this company on more than one occasion, remaining with us even though he'd had chance a-plenty to turn away and return home. Out of the lot of us, I dare say he's proven the best at facing the unexpected, and has managed to save us all countless times. We owe him a great debt, and we are lucky to have him with us.”

By the end of that little addendum to Thorin's speech, just about all the dwarves are cheering and muttering approvingly, those near to the halfling reaching out and patting him on the back, all uniting in raising their tankards to him when Thorin finishes, accompanying that with a loud 'to Bilbo!'s and 'Hear hear!'s. An honest blush colors Bilbo's cheeks, and he waves his hand in a feeble dismissal in Thorin's general direction, but he is all but grinning, and Thorin himself finds he can't quite temper his smile anymore. Their gazes interlock for a brief moment, Thorin inclining his head slightly and Bilbo clearing his throat and nodding his thanks, and Thorin thinks he can feel a tiny something constrict deep within his chest. He decides to ignore the peculiar look Balin casts him right after that, and is happy to return to the feast.

Quite unwittingly however, his attention remains with the halfling. The celebrations continue in an informal way, allowing for Thorin to merely sit by himself and observe – something he finds quite relaxing. The others know to leave him to it, presuming he's preoccupied with going over the last part of their journey even now – he joins them in song whenever opportunity arises, and chats easily enough with anyone who seeks his company, but he finds the most peace in simply watching everyone else be merry.

Bilbo on the other hand converses with _everyone_ , even the Men, laughing and sharing stories, and in a flash, Thorin recalls how their burglar had known the name of Bard, their reluctant smuggler, first of all, simply because he'd thought to ask him it... That is how he is – easygoing and friendly, polite beyond a dwarf's understanding. All in all, his nature is completely foreign to Thorin, infuriatingly so.

_Delicate_ is the first word that comes to mind when he entertains it with coming up with at least some acceptable description of the halfling, but something tells him Bilbo would not condone such a term – and Thorin must admit that after everything they've been through, after everything he's seen Bilbo do, there are many other words that suit him better. _Reckless,_ the sensible part of him supplies, remembering how he'd flung himself in front of Thorin's own body, gripping his letter opener of a sword entirely wrong, careless about his stance, careless about his _life..._

_Brave,_ another part of Thorin's mind counters, _quick, and fierce for his size._

_Cunning,_ he decides, thinking back on the stifling darkness of the dungeons of the Elvenking, and the sight of Bilbo appearing behind the bars. He'd been like a mirage, pristine and gleaming in all his travel-worn glory, and later on, Thorin would think it strangely fitting, that he'd come holding the keys to their freedom while Thorin's own key nursed close to his heart had almost ceased being enough of a hope.

_Entirely unpredictable,_ he concedes at last. The way Bilbo had stood up for him in front of seemingly the entire city assembled, _I'll vouch for him_ , struck Thorin like lightning – out of all the beings in Middle Earth, this comfortable fussy little almost-burglar thought Thorin true enough to put his trust, his word, in. It had been a tiny gesture in the grand scope of things, certainly meaningless to the Men watching, but at some point, Thorin will have to take the halfling aside and explain that to him, it meant the world.

He drowns the other words in his ale. Words like _intriguing,_ and _endearing,_ and _beautiful._ Words like those, he knows, bring about nothing but despair if used carelessly. If one believes in them. Bilbo is all of those things to Thorin, but letting him know would be a foolish, selfish thing to do. And Thorin is in no position to allow himself to be either.

And so he watches – he can excuse that much. The halfling drinks. It's a bit peculiar, Thorin never took the hobbitfolk for drinkers, but it wouldn't be the first misconception he's had about the gentle people, and probably not the last. Laketown ale is inexcusably weak by dwarven standards, but there's plenty to go around, and Bilbo doesn't seem to need much for his cheeks to turn rosy, and his eyes to come alight with that gleam that suggests his head is probably spinning more than he'd like to let on.

He sits at the far end of the impossibly long table they find themselves at, surrounded by Men and Dwarves alike, too far for Thorin to hear what they're talking about. He's using his hands quite a great deal to describe this or that no doubt horrendous experience, and Thorin watches as his listeners' eyes are quite literally glued to him – there's Bofur, grinning with his pipe between his teeth, and Ori, scribbling on a scrap of paper as if he's illustrating the story as Master Baggins tells it, and Dori with Nori, who still find the time to squabble about something, even though another is speaking...

That is all fine and well, but Thorin finds he has much reservation about the Men surrounding the halfling. They are all stern and powerful, like guards or blacksmiths, and yet they seem endlessly enchanted by Bilbo's whole being, his mannerisms, his way with words... They can't be trusted at all, Thorin decides.

 

This soon proves an odd pattern – there is more ale to be drunk, draping a heavy, warm haze over everybody's senses, and so Thorin might be imagining things, but Bilbo seems to be seeking out the company of Men. In a short-lived, pointless fit of bitter jealousy, Thorin wonders if he likes them better – if Dwarves have been too crude to his liking, and he's finally found kindred spirits here. If they'll lure their burglar away with promises of warm food and soft beds.

Even though he now believes firmly in his worth and skills, Thorin knows that what he'd said so many times before is true – Master Baggins doesn't belong with them. Doesn't belong on the road, faced with unexpected danger and the discomfort of traveling, and, yes, the lack of food. He thinks back on the almost laughable, unreal coziness of Bilbo's dwelling in the Shire, and thinks he understands why one might want to return there. It's infinitely smaller, more fragile, than what Thorin calls home, but it is home to the halfling nevertheless, with a hearth waiting to be rekindled, and fresh air to be let in, cobwebs to be dusted... Thorin is almost cross with himself for understanding that. Much like any other thing he's grown to... he's grown to _care about,_ he could act possessive about Bilbo, could demand his presence and the comfort of his touch, and yet he refrains.

Even indulging in imagining how the halfling might react to whatever proposal Thorin would make is too much. More than he can afford. No, their fates might have been joined together briefly, but they travel such vastly different paths – it would be selfish of Thorin to assume that Bilbo feels what he feels, that their chance meeting is anything more than that. Thorin Oakenshield does not believe in fate – and even if he did, happening upon Bilbo Baggins and discovering within his inappropriately exotic and horribly fragile frame something that moves him would certainly be considered the most cruel trick. No, he cannot have him, and best leave it at that.

That doesn't stop him from almost giving in to the immense urge to unsheathe his sword and behead the first Man who dares touch Bilbo. It's nothing but a brush of hand against arm, and the halfling is giggling and chugging down what must be the fourth tankard of ale at least, and so he probably doesn't even notice – Thorin does, however, half a room away and in the weak, dim glow of the dirty lanterns, and the hot spike of jealousy is entirely unexpected.

He drowns that in ale as well, just like he's done with a great many other things that night already, but to his horror, matters only get worse. Some of the Company take over from the Laketown musicians, and as the music grows more lively, Bilbo dances. Oh, he should not be dancing – the sight of him is detrimental to Thorin's peace of mind. He is joined by those of the Company who are not playing, but what's much worse, Men turn out to be enthusiastic dancers as well.

Thorin has to strain himself not to rise from his seat as he begins losing sight of the halfling more often than he'd like – the laughter carries, though, and the glimpses Thorin does catch make him all but happy. Bilbo is radiant – of course he is. The tall man hoisting him up on the table seems to think so as well. Thorin pours himself more ale, and only realizes he's been white-knuckling the tankard without actually drinking when Dwalin sits down next to him.

“There's cheer to be had,” his oldest friend reminds him simply, and only cocks an eyebrow when Thorin's gaze attempts to scorch him where he sits.

“I'm aware,” Thorin grunts, and Dwalin laughs, leaning back heavily and exhaling contentedly.

“Some seem to be better at understanding that than others,” he supplies completely innocently, and if they were a hundred years younger, Thorin would kick him under the table.

“You know I don't dance,” he grumbles instead.

“A damn shame,” Dwalin retorts slyly, “you might get yer hands on _the most unlikely addition to our Company_ if you did – just saying!” he dodges Thorin's halfhearted blow easily enough, and with a hearty laugh at that.

“Nobody is _getting their hands_ on anyone,” Thorin mutters.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Dwalin chuckles, pointing to where Bilbo is now... oh Mahal, sitting on the table, furry feet dangling in the air happily as a man re-lights his pipe for him.

“They look so innocent, the little people,” the younger Fundin brother continues, seemingly without any regard to Thorin's rising desperation, “you'd think they'd be all bashful an' delicate, but look at our burglar going to town. I'm told they have incredible stamina, and quite the drive when it comes to-”

Thorin does kick him then, or rather stomps on his foot while also jamming his elbow into his ribs, and it is an entirely childish thing to do, but he simply can't bear any more of this.

“What're you afraid of?” Dwalin asks teasingly, “that you don't have what it takes? That he'll scare away when he sees the size of yer-”

“ _Dwalin,_ ” Thorin growls, and that at least is enough to shut him up – but he still eyes Thorin with a hint of barely concealed amusement, and Thorin engages in the staring contest for a while before relenting and taking long, deep gulps of the tasteless ale. When he finishes, Dwalin is still there, still glaring.

“I'm,” Thorin starts, but knows that as much as they know about each other, as good as Dwalin is at guessing what Thorin has not dared mention to a living soul, he still won't be able to explain. Explain the desire that would blind him and drive him mad if he let it. Explain that repressing that, or chalking it up to a lack of stress release or muddled senses or whatnot every day is endlessly exhausting and barely enough to convince Thorin himself. That it is wrong and quite possibly utterly insane, and yet unlike anything Thorin remembers feeling at any point in his long life. He doesn't remember ever yearning this much for something that didn't have to do with long-lost homelands and well-deserved revenge.

“I cannot ask anything of him,” he says simply, lifelessly, hanging his head and staring firmly into the slowly swirling dark void of his drink. After a moment, Dwalin sighs, and a heavy hand settles on Thorin's shoulder.

“Aye. But Thorin, you have led us this far. We'll lay our eyes upon the Mountain tomorrow,” that is enough to make Thorin gaze at Dwalin again, “and as much as we like to talk of victory, there's still a dragon between us and that.”

“I don't need reminding,” Thorin mumbles.

“We can't any of us know what's coming,” Dwalin adds with uncharacteristic solemnity, “but I say tonight is about forgetting that, and about indulging ourselves before it's too late to indulge ourselves in anything ever again.”

Thorin should chastise him for even mentioning doubt. Between the two of them, they rarely speak of it – Dwalin is endlessly loyal and has remained by Thorin's side even through some of his more questionable decisions, and Thorin expects no less. What he seeks with Dwalin is unyielding support – perhaps he's too used to it meaning that his brother by bond will refrain from calling him out on _his_ doubt. Perhaps he's foolish, thinking Dwalin won't recognize that he's afraid, and leave it be if he does.

But that's the thing – Thorin remembers standing atop the Carrock, every bone in his body aching, but not strongly enough to quell the embers of hope smack in the middle of his chest heating up and growing into a forest fire. It had been easier then, he now knows. The span of Mirkwood below them seemed like nothing much – the Mountain lay behind it, after all, and nothing could stop Thorin from reaching it, nothing. The promise of home had sent fresh blood pumping through his veins, had been enough to make him march on. Certainly it had been much better than this.

The first time they saw the Mountain up close, its peak breaching the heavy fog, Thorin's heart stopped, painfully so. He'd never confided about this to anyone, not even to Dwalin or Balin, but he'd set out on this journey entirely ready to let the end of it be the end of him also. He thinks they've always known that he'd be willing to sacrifice anything to see the quest finished. He doesn't think he'll ever have the heart to tell them that laying down his life would not be considered a sacrifice, but a great relief. And yet, seeing just how close to the Mountain they really were, woke up something within him. He fears not the dragon – no, a much greater doom awaits him inside the Mountain, something that has been coursing through his veins since the day he was born, only waiting to take over. Now, no matter how many times he reminds himself that he mustn't show any weakness, he is afraid – afraid of what he might become, afraid that his end might not be his own.

He looks on Dwalin, with his stern, weathered features, and wonders if the warrior would risk disobedience after all, were Thorin to ask him to make sure his sickness would not get out of hand, by any means necessary.

He's always excelled at masking any doubt and concern plaguing him, which is why Dwalin merely gazes at him expectantly.

“I cannot,” Thorin says firmly, and Dwalin's brow furrows, and he opens his mouth to counter him, but that is when Fíli joins the conversation, and his young face is much worse at concealing his worries.

“Pardon me,” he casts a glance from Dwalin to Thorin, “but Uncle, can we speak?”

Dwalin harrumphs and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, but Thorin sighs heavily, a part of him grateful to turn his attention to his sister-son.

“Of course. What's the matter?”

“It's Kíli. He's not well. We laid him down in one of the rooms the Men have given us, and Oin is with him, but... you should see him.”

“Is it so bad?” Dwalin inquires.

“Oin thinks the arrow that shot him must have been poisoned,” Fíli says, “he's asked for what little the Men could provide, and he's working on some sort of healing salve now, but...”

“Take me to them,” Thorin nods, standing up.

He scans the crowd one last time for the familiar crown of curls, and... yes, there he is, sitting on a table, surrounded by even more eager listeners. Thorin turns away when the halfling's gaze snaps his way, swallowing the bitterness that rises in his throat out of nowhere, and lets Fíli lead him away.

The noise of the crowd subsides at once when they enter the dark hallway – the house the Men have lent them for the night is larger than they might possibly ever need, and from what Thorin understands, it is part of something the Master had proudly called City Hall, but what is nothing but a glorified wooden shack to Thorin's eyes. Still they will each have a soft bed to sleep in, and that is more than enough after all.

Kíli lies in a room not so far away, and the second Thorin enters it, the far too familiar concoction of the heavy herbal scent of whatever salve Oin's been working on, and the thick, coppery smell of serious wounds, makes his head spin. His younger sister-son is pale as a sheet, sickly skin a stark contrast with his dark hair. His eyes are veiled in pain and sickness, and yet he attempts to scramble upright and sit when he lays them on Thorin.

“Easy,” Thorin mumbles softly, Oin moving out of the way to let him sit with the young one.

“Uncle, I'm fine,” Kíli protests, “really! I just want to – they won't even let me dance. _Or_ drink! This is atrocious!”

Even now, he maintains his jokes, but he can't help the wince that escapes him when Oin tugs at the bandage on his leg.

“I'm fine,” he repeats stubbornly.

“Of course you are,” Thorin nods, motioning Oin to show him the wound.

Thorin has seen many a cut and bruise and slash, but nothing quite like this – the wound, though cleaned, is a mess of blood and pus, and the ruined skin looks tender and strained. Thorin thinks he can almost sense the foul heat it breathes.

“It's nothing,” Kíli grumbles.

Beads of sweat are glistening on his forehead, and he grits his teeth against a whimper when Oin covers the wound back up.

“I'm doing what I can,” the healer says, “and the body is yet fighting, but I need more time, I need to clean it and sew it up, and these are no conditions for that.”

“You've got the whole night,” Kíli retorts resolutely, then, turning to Thorin, “I'll be fine in the morning, I promise. Don't worry.”

Thorin sighs, squeezing the boy's shoulder briefly – how laughable it is, that the young ones think they must show courage at all costs, or he won't see their worth. Even when he can barely extend the same courtesy to them. They would die before they would fail him – he hopes he will not fail them before dying.

“Rest,” he tells Kíli, “I will come check on you later.”

Fíli lingers with his brother, but Thorin and him exchange a telling look before he leaves the room – he knows his heir will not admit it, but deep down even he knows that Kíli might not be able to go on tomorrow.

Thorin stands alone for a few beats in the relatively quiet hallway, basking in the air, much fresher than inside the overcrowded hall. He allows himself a moment of weakness – things seem surprisingly helpless, considering they're now a lake away from the end of their quest, and victory is almost tangible.

He finds the staircase leading to the upper floor of the house and sits down at the foot of it, dragging both hands down his face, then burying it in them as he rests his elbows on his knees. The cheer from the hall is nothing but a distant, quiet murmur now, and perhaps he's underestimated Laketown ale, because his head feels increasingly heavier. He inhales deeply, then grunts into his palms – and his nerves of steel almost fail him when a small hand rests on his shoulder, the gentlest, softest touch.

“Hello,” Bilbo smiles, and Thorin scowls at him, firmly ignoring the sudden rising heat in his cheeks, and the queer tug in his gut.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Needed some fresh air,” the halfling explains lightly, “I wasn't aware Men knew how to party.”

“Surely not as... eagerly as hobbitfolk.”

“But close,” Bilbo chuckles, “what are _you_ doing here, though? The fun is inside!”

“I'm certain my companions are enjoying themselves just fine without me leading them in song,” Thorin grumbles, and to his mild surprise, Bilbo laughs – a soft, pleasant sound.

“Does Thorin Oakenshield _never_ rest?”

Thorin stares at him at a loss for words for a moment, something in his face, all raised eyebrows and the hint of an amused smile, endlessly infuriating and taunting at the same time.

“When the Mountain is reclaimed, I might consider it,” he supplies with what is surprising honesty, even to him.

“Oh, right, _the Mountain,_ ” the halfling exclaims, one vague gesture of his arm seemingly encompassing the entirety of the city, the lake, and what lay beyond it, “your one true mistress.”

Thorin would take the statement much more seriously if Bilbo didn't sway slightly as he said it, losing balance for a split second.

“You've drunk one pint too many,” he accuses him, and the burglar frowns at him, not offended, but almost... displeased.

“On the corn – contrary,” he slurs, “ _you_ haven't drunk enough.”

“At least some of us should think to keep a clear head tomorrow,” Thorin replies a tad more sternly than he'd intended, but yet again, Bilbo takes it with amusement, rather than pique.

“Did you know?” he chuckles, “us hobbits process spirits very well – our bodies are built that way, I think. My head will be as clear as the sky after a storm come morning, I promise you.”

“Remarkable,” Thorin mumbles, and the halfling beams as if he's just been paid the most wonderful compliment.

“It really is. I don't think we would be as good at all the merrying otherwise.”

“Ah yes, I've been watching your _merrying,_ ” Thorin utters, and only realizes he didn't actually mean to say that out loud when it's far too late.

“Oh, golly me,” the burglar says with the slightest hint of cold, “I did not know it was forbidden in the Company of Thorin Oakenshield to spend time with nice people when given the chance.”

“They are not nice people,” Thorin grunts, and a distinct feeling of losing solid ground under his feet overcomes him out of nowhere.

“They are _very nice_ people,” Bilbo counters, “living in bad circumstances. There's a difference.”

“I don't require a lesson on the alleged _good hearts_ of Men,” Thorin retorts, and wonders quietly why every conversation he ever holds with the halfling for longer than a minute is destined to turn sour.

“No, you require more ale,” Bilbo quips, all amusement gone, dissolved now, “or perhaps all the ale in the world is not enough to soften the edges of dwarven Kings.”

“Perhaps,” Thorin agrees bitterly, and the burglar makes a sound – like a desperate sigh transformed into a derisive snort halfway through.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says softly, and leaves the rest of whatever that sentence could have amounted to hanging in the air – and Thorin has no intention of grasping at the thread of it.

For all intents and purposes, he should be delighted that the halfling has chosen to spend even a little bit of time in his company, _willingly_ at that. But as it is, Bilbo's effortlessly easygoing nature, and in no small part his rosy cheeks and glinting eyes and hair tousled from all the dancing,only manage to add to Thorin's despair, reminding him painfully and almost mockingly of what he will never have.

“Return to your merrying, Master Baggins,” he says quietly.

Bilbo inhales as if preparing to unleash yet another snide remark, but then he deflates, and Thorin fully expects him to turn away and disappear – but oh, how surprised he is when one small, gentle, warm hand settles on his cheek instead, proving even more of his expectations entirely wrong. The little burglar is gazing at him as if he's daring him to look away, but Thorin suspects he could not even if he tried. No, there is something enchanting, enthralling about the halfling's... what should he call it? Gall?

“You'll be home soon enough,” Bilbo notes in the sweetest voice – Thorin is genuinely taken aback by how earnest he sounds.

“You'll be home soon,” the halfling repeats, “and though I expect there is still much cut out for us, you have... you have already achieved so much. You deserve to put your worries on hold for one night.”

Thorin's lips part, but instead of some sort of quick reply to snap at Bilbo, telling him he knows nothing, telling him not to belittle Thorin's plight yet to be overcome, a soft gasp escapes them, and the King under the Mountain feels something, some tiny cog in the machinery of his heart and soul, click into place. The next breath he takes is... different. And there it is still, the sensation of Bilbo's hand in his beard, perhaps reassuring if it weren't so disconcerting... Thorin must see.

Ever so slowly, he closes his fingers over Bilbo's and guides his hand away from his own face and before his eyes – it is laughably small, his wrist nothing but a twig were Thorin to wrap his fingers around it. And it is smooth, like that of a youngling's, no sign of callouses, no sight of anything that might convince Thorin that his burglar is anything but unbelievably frail, and impractically so, like one of those hollow statuettes of the Valar that would sometimes make it into the possession of traders in Bree, and cracked entirely too easily when dropped or even held without care.

“You speak of things you do not fully understand,” he murmurs, trying to distract his lips from the desire to map the texture of the halfling's palm, and Bilbo laughs, light and wonderful, like water trickling over pebbles in a forest brook.

“Of course I do!” he exclaims, “that's what hobbits do to pass time. It's very refreshing, you should try it sometime.”

Thorin knows not how, but he senses a smile sneaking onto his lips as well, and decides not to fight it this time.  
“I might,” he decides, and is rewarded with one of those bright, stunning grins only Master Baggins knows how to give.

Thorin only ever realizes that he's still holding his hand gently when Bilbo clears his throat – he'd been too preoccupied with gazing into his eyes, his mind blissfully devoid of the worries the halfling seems to despise so much for one kind moment. The idea of losing himself, if even for a couple of seconds, should fill him with dread, but there is also comfort in Bilbo's presence that Thorin would be a fool to deny himself. It's not like he's _pressuring_ Bilbo to do anything, yes? It's not like they're doing something they would both regret come morning...

“Come back inside with me,” Bilbo offers then, his voice carrying with it a promise obvious even to Thorin, who has always been rather dense about these matters, “we'll drink to the things we do not fully understand.”

And his tiny, fragile hand moves and his fingers close around Thorin's, destined to fail in their attempt to envelop his hand, but trying amicably nevertheless, and Thorin finds that this, he does not know how to resist. He thinks he's glad he doesn't.

He gets up, indulging Bilbo in the fantasy that he's the one pulling him to his feet, but finds as soon as he is standing that he has no intention of spending the rest of the night in a company that isn't the burglar. He licks his lips, suddenly dry, and dares grip Bilbo's hand tighter.

“It is not more ale that I desire,” he manages, and yet another shaky exhale almost escapes him when the halfling turns to look at him, inclining his head curiously – the somewhat knowing smile tugging at his lips is a blessing, Thorin thinks. He expects yet another witty rebuttal, but Bilbo simply watches him for a bit, probably perfectly unaware of how strangely uncomfortable he's making him, and then giggles almost contentedly, tugging at Thorin's hand.

“Come,” he orders again, “the night is yet young.”

But something rises from deep within Thorin's chest, bile and a dull displeasure at the mental image of the faces of the numerous Men inside, all of them nothing short of smitten with the halfling...

“No,” he says firmly, his hand slipping out of Bilbo's feeble grasp as if it isn't the most difficult feat he's ever achieved, “if I am to follow you inside only to watch you _merrying_ with Men of questionable honor and traveling fingers, then I'd rather stay out here, alone.”

Bilbo laughs again, but it is anything but happy this time – it stings, as it should. Thorin almost hangs his head.

“I do imagine you would,” the halfling says, “I wonder if this is what dwarves do for fun – sit around tying their heads in knots over impossible quests and sleeping dragons.”

“The suffering of my folk...” Thorin attempts rather lamely, and he knows it, and is almost grateful when Bilbo cuts him off.

“Oh yes, the suffering of your folk has been grave, I know. I wouldn't dare belittle it, and forgive me if I have done so, O King. I do marvel at your ability to keep on going despite it all. And I apologize – I am naught but a hobbit out of his hole and out of his depth, and it was foolish of me to attempt to cheer you up, when obviously our respective temperaments are designed for nothing else than clashing forevermore.”

There is the bitterness that Thorin fully expects and thinks he's somewhat prepared for; there's the undercurrent of not-so-gentle mocking that he thinks he deserves. But there's also an echo, the slightest intonation, of an ache somewhere deep below the halfling's words, speaking of the words he'd _truly_ like to say.

“I meant it when I said we were lucky to have you,” Thorin offers almost tentatively, feeling like the conversation is speeding out of the realm of his control.

Bilbo is watching him as if he's expecting his face to yield... whatever he is looking for.

“And I meant it when I said you needed more ale,” he replies at last, colorlessly, and turns on his heel and marches away, not looking back once.

Thorin feels a little bit like someone slapped him over the face with a dishcloth – it's something his mother used to do, and he's feeling the same concoction of shock and pain and stubborn anger. The cacophony from inside swells in volume as Bilbo opens the door, closing it behind himself soundlessly. Thorin _could_ follow him, could spend the night devoting all his efforts to getting as epically drunk as the bland Laketown ale allows to make himself forget yet another failure – it's a small one, he tells himself. Is it? It's not like ending a conversation with their burglar on an unpleasant note is a novelty.

No, he decides – when it comes down to it, he really must keep a clear head. Yes. He stands still for a while, gazing at the flame of the nearest lantern, dancing and sputtering in the humid air, and then he marches to the closest window. The view is not the one he desires – they are too deep within the city to see the Mountain from any angle at all – and so he sighs, displeased, folding his hands behind his back and watching the tiny ripples on the water, the poorly constructed boats swaying lightly...

Too preoccupied with making himself think thoughts as far away from what awaits him as possible, he doesn't even notice, doesn't even hear... But then, hobbits really are remarkably light on their feet, a fact which Master Baggins has proven countless times, and proves it again now, appearing by Thorin's side completely out of the blue.

“Stop moping,” he orders simply, pushing a tankard into Thorin's hand, “drink.”

His fingers brush at Thorin's knuckles, and Thorin glares at him, expecting an explanation, expecting him to start making any sense at all – but no, as always, the burglar remains infuriatingly unpredictable, and merely inclines his head almost impatiently when Thorin can't tear his eyes away. Engaging in a staring contest with him isn't something that Thorin has the capacity for, not right now anyway, and so he obliges and brings the tankard to his lips. Bilbo glares at him some more, then nods to himself as if he's feeling particularly accomplished, and drinks as well.

The sound of something breaking echoes from inside the hall, followed by uproarious laughter, and they both gaze that way briefly, but Thorin's eyes settle on the halfling soon enough. Bilbo simply cocks an eyebrow and drinks some more, looking out of the window now, and Thorin can't help but feel like he's not keeping up. Like Bilbo expects him to be better, a quicker conversational partner, a more joyful drinker, something that Thorin isn't. Can't be. _Whatever you're looking for, look elsewhere,_ he wants to tell him, _I can't give you what you want. I'm far too familiar with the feeling of not being enough, and I must avoid it at all costs, now, though it threatens to swallow me everywhere I turn..._

“You know,” Bilbo interrupts his increasingly gloomy thinking, “despite what you might think, us hobbits aren't in fact as easy with our affections as we would have everyone believe.”

Thorin merely blinks at him for a moment – yes, certainly not keeping up.

“I never-”

“I'm not leaving you for a couple of talkative Lakemen,” Bilbo interrupts him with such ease that Thorin doesn't even find the time to protest, “no, I have been much enticed now, and would very much like to see this grand adventure through to the end, if you don't mind.”

He gazes out of the window still, and Thorin thinks he can see a strange sort of longing in his eyes – as if he is in fact weighing his chances, considering whether turning back now and going home would be a better prospect than whatever lay ahead of them.

“Well, you did sign a contract,” Thorin declares, and regrets it shortly thereafter, because Bilbo bursts into utterly gleeful laughter, somewhat mellow but earnest, and utterly wondrous to Thorin's ears.

“Ah yes, the contract. Should I expect it to haunt me until the end of my days?”

Thorin doesn't respond but with some laughter of his own, albeit tentative, and they continue in silence yet again. Just a moment ago, Thorin had felt uneasy in it, but now he experiences comfort – the sort that comes from the lack of need to speak, not because the ones concerned have nothing to talk about, but because they have decided to simply be for a while.

He entertains the idea of confiding in Bilbo then – what, he's not particularly sure. He's carried most of his fears and insecurities and expectations with himself utterly silently for most of his life, unspoken and unaddressed, and he knows he won't be changing that now, but... There is something about the halfling, something that compels him to question his ancient ways.

“Does Erebor hold very many riches?” Bilbo asks then, and before Thorin can answer, he continues, somewhat dreamily, “you see, I'm getting somewhat fond of this traveling-around-the-world business. If my share were enough, I was thinking I could go to Bag End for a bit, recuperate, then go and build a dozen other Bag Ends around the world. My summer houses, I would call them.”

He is very obviously rather drunk, but than only adds to the charm of his words – Thorin can't help but smile. He speaks of the future as if it's certain, as if finishing this quest and going back home is the one natural outcome... Thorin admires that. Not so long ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to call it reckless naivety, but now – now he only wishes he were capable of being so optimistic.

“Your reward will be plentiful, believe me,” he says quietly, “we are lucky to have you with us.”

“Yes, you said that already – in fact twice just this evening, I believe,” Bilbo replies with a hint of amusement, and when a heat entirely unbecoming of his age rises in Thorin's cheeks and he looks away, the halfling adds, “but I never get tired of hearing it, though.”

Thorin smiles at the floor, Bilbo's large furry feet close to his heavy boots. The burden of his duties is now somewhat lessened, and he knows not whether to account it to the ale, or the... invigorating presence of the halfling. Either way, his head feels lighter, and that is not a feeling he's necessarily very familiar with. _There's cheer to be had,_ Dwalin had said. And he had also made a very thinly veiled lewd suggestion or two, but one step at a time.

“Master Baggins...” Thorin starts, gruff and somewhat clumsy, wringing his words out only with immense hardship, “I don't presume to know you very well, but perhaps it will be my saving grace should I meet with nothing but disapproval. I don't make a habit out of making... reckless suggestions out of nowhere, you must understand. The promise of tomorrow haunts me still, but...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts him, and it's nothing but an exhale really, but accompanied by the tenderest brush of the halfling's fingers at Thorin's wrist, it is more than enough to lodge the rest of his words in his throat. He braves looking up at long last, and sees that Bilbo's features are somehow even softer in the somewhat sickly bluish glow of the uneasy night, and a small smile graces them.

“Do you know what haunts me?” Bilbo asks, and doesn't wait for him to answer, continuing ever so gently, and breathtakingly earnestly, “I set out on this journey at a moment's notice, no handkerchief, no nothing, running off after you and your Company. I saw you face off wargs, and orcs, and horrors like I'd never imagined possible, and you never faltered, never were anything less than perfectly determined. I can't presume to know _you,_ sadly enough, but I do know this – your home is _so_ close, and you have led your companions _so_ far, and yet you-”

His speech is cut short, ending prematurely in what starts out a shocked gasp but finishes a muffled whimper, and a considerable part of Thorin is quite taken aback as well upon realizing that he is the culprit of that. But Bilbo's cheeks and hair are so incredibly soft and warm under his touch, and his lips, while initially hard and pressed together tight, soon turn pliant and searing hot under Thorin's own.

Thorin thinks of the dragon slumbering on his piles of gold, thinks of his nephew lying in bed nearby with an injury that will most certainly render him too sick to continue with them, thinks of what he's asking of his brethren, knows Bilbo isn't capable of understanding that and Thorin isn't capable of making him understand...

And then the halfling's lips part in the sweetest, most inviting moan, and Thorin has a difficult time thinking about anything at all.

“Well then,” Bilbo murmurs into what little air they allow between themselves, “you should have told me to make my rambling shorter.”

“I didn't mean to...” Thorin attempts, but the sweet taste of Bilbo still lingers when he licks his lips, and discerning what exactly was a bad idea about this is becoming quite the ordeal.

“Really?” Bilbo chuckles, still standing so close, neither of them in the mood to put some distance between them just yet, “I was rather hoping you did.”

“I cannot ask anything of you-”

“No? ...No, of course you cannot. Then let me make a _reckless suggestion_ myself.”

Thorin's heart is beating with the intensity usually reserved for adrenaline-fueled fights and such, and it's as if the burglar has managed to effectively steal his clarity of thinking – trying to come up with what to say next, where to steer this conversation, is like wading through mud. He'd kissed Bilbo to make him quiet, because his words had tugged at something buried so deep within Thorin he'd never hoped it would see the light of day again, and for once in his life, Thorin had not planned any further than that.

“What... suggestion?” he manages somewhat breathlessly.

They're not touching anymore, but his skin tingles as if they were, and he bears it only with much hardship.

“You'll follow me,” Bilbo mumbles with the faintest hint of a smile, “and let me show you what we hobbits are best at – providing comfort. No more _merrying,_ no more drinking ale with Lakemen, no more worrying about the events of tomorrow. _Both_ our heads will be clear come morning. What do you say?”

Thorin says nothing. He has run out of words. Claiming and reclaiming are two very different things, he realizes the second he steps closer to Bilbo, a soft, slightly distressed exhale fluttering off his lips. He really does not wish to think of the improbable halfling as _his_ in any sense of the word, because he is far too used to losing everything that is his, but the truth of the matter is... Nothing has felt more natural than reaching out for him, not in a very long time.

He does so tentatively at best, hands hovering in the air, not actually capable of making the whole journey towards Bilbo's, but there Bilbo is yet again, as if he lives to disprove every single one of Thorin's expectations. He brings his own hand, that small, soft, tender hand, to Thorin's face, cupping his cheek once more, and only then does Thorin realize he's been firmly glaring at the ground like a nervous tween.

Bilbo's eyes gleam like the most precious gems in the darkness, and Thorin succumbs, lets himself be pulled close, lets himself be kissed ever so lightly, his cheek, his chin, nose, even brow, Bilbo tiptoeing to reach. When at last the halfling's lips ghost over his, nothing but the faintest phantom of a touch, Thorin's heart leaps, utterly unused to such tenderness, and he releases a sound he didn't think he had in him – a quiet, shaky sigh. The back of his neck tingles when he feels Bilbo smile, thus lending the kiss more depth, and the world shrinks to the warmth of his mouth and his palms, everything else but a distant memory for this one precious, fleeting moment.

“Come with me?” Bilbo suggests gently when they part, handling himself much better than Thorin, who is, in fact, rather speechless, and there's no saying no to that, really.

“Yes,” he manages to reply, nothing but a hoarse whisper, and the burglar smiles and his fingers close around Thorin's wrist yet again, and he finds himself being steered as if he were dragged onward by some impossible force, and not a gentlehobbit who is about half his size and grips his hand with a strength not much greater than that of a child.

They walk up the stairs, Bilbo at a determined trot and Thorin in a considerable daze, and neither of them looks back once.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He feels like a child himself, following obediently past door after door through the long narrow hallway upstairs – the halfling seems to have a destination in mind, and he has already proven to be better at directions many times before.

The room is a surprisingly spacious one, tucked well away from the core of the building, and Thorin stumbles inside on somewhat unsteady feet. Bilbo leaves him standing by the door, perhaps trusting him enough to close it – but it takes Thorin ages to come to that conclusion, because he's far too preoccupied with watching Bilbo's every step, toward the small crooked table by the window, fiddling with the oil lamp with his back turned to Thorin. The whole scene is so very casual, as if they've just met here to talk about the weather.

A dim glow rises and frames the soft lines of the halfling's shoulders, the light dancing and playing tricks in his curls, making them appear as if delicately carved from purest gold, and Thorin does gather his wits enough to step closer at long last, the uneven wooden floor creaking under his boots as if it's accusing him. But he has walked this far, and all the reason there might be in stopping now, he decides not to see.

He simply hovers, yet again incapable of actually reaching out and touching, but Bilbo turns to him soon enough, and if Thorin was fearing the expression the halfling might regard him with once he faces him, it all dissipates when all that gazes back is a small smile, almost encouraging.

“Comfort,” he says softly, taking a step closer, his light feet somehow managing not to upset the floor at all, damn them, “is all about knowing what you like. What do you like, King under the Mountain?”

_You,_ Thorin wants to say, because it is all that comes to mind at that moment,  _you and your brazen ways, and the way you tilt your head as if you're complaining about having to look up when you speak to me, and the brush of your touch that feels so familiar even though it's completely new. You._

Instead, he says nothing, simply steps closer himself, his hand much braver now on its onward journey it seems – his fingertips travel from the smooth fabric of the halfling's overcoat on his shoulder to the much softer texture of the bare skin on the base of his neck, and higher, briefly entertaining the unruly tendrils of hair, only to move on to acquaint themselves with the delicate curve of Bilbo's jaw, and it's a journey without a map or a certain outcome, but Thorin travels it valiantly nonetheless.

“See, what _I_ would like is for you to-”

“Quiet,” Thorin mutters, fully concentrating on his current task, which consists of attempting to measure how long he will last before he brushes his thumb across the burglar's lips, “I should like to find out for myself.”

Bilbo comments on that with a gasp that is half surprise, half amusement.

“Suit yourself. We've got all the time in the world.”

“Hardly,” Thorin grumbles, and thankfully Bilbo stops any complaining that might follow right in its tracks, his body flush against Thorin's, hands sneaking up his chest.

“Let us pretend we do, then,” he murmurs, and any and all protests Thorin might have evaporate when he kisses him.

He is more demanding now, away from prying eyes and away from still trying to talk Thorin down – some sort of agreement has been reached without a single word between them, and the burglar now simply seals it with his mouth, letting Thorin in, only to take what he's deemed rightfully his the next second. Thorin's head spins when Bilbo's tongue flicks against his almost tentatively at first, then invites itself in fully and vigorously. A groan escapes him and his knees almost buck when Bilbo bothers his bottom lip with his teeth, and his body reacts on its own, arms pulling the halfling closer into a powerful embrace, feeling him quiver slightly under his abrupt attention.

He is so much tinier than any body Thorin has ever held before, his kisses gentler but more dizzying still than any Thorin has tasted before, and he is soon all but consumed by the need to explore what else is out of the ordinary about this creature breathing out such delicious gasps and clutching at the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, closer.

But yet again, Bilbo defies and exceeds all his expectations, somehow managing to take over and explain his plans to Thorin simply by readjusting himself in his hold and pressing until Thorin budges, backing up until his calves hit the edge of the bed – was it so conveniently close the whole time? Thorin's thoughts are scattered hopelessly now, like the stars in a night sky, and he doesn't even make an attempt at herding them back together. No, he just gives in, sitting down on the bed heavily, and the pleased look on his burglar's face is the greatest achievement of his evening yet.

Without much ado, Bilbo undoes the broad belt holding his oversized coat in place, and shrugs out of that easily, as well as his old vest, ruined and button-less now, soon standing before him in nothing but his breeches and a shirt, and Thorin mouth is suddenly very dry. His fingers travel to the string of his own tunic, but before they can get there, Bilbo steps closer and takes over the job himself, taking his time, a small contented smile dancing on his lips.

Thorin is the one looking up at him for once, and he does so in mute wonder, silently committing the sight to memory, to conjure up in more difficult days ahead. There is no doubt that those will come, but there is also no doubt that what he's being granted right now will help stop time for a while, or at least slow it down a little bit.

He gasps like a startled youngling when Bilbo's knuckles brush at the bare skin of his torso as he gets a hold of his tunic, and the halfling chuckles as he pulls it up and off over Thorin's head, tossing it aside without a care in the world. He moves to get on with whatever his plan for Thorin is, but stops dead in his tracks, and just... stares for a moment.

“Oh my,” he sighs, biting his lip, and Thorin feels heat welling in his cheeks.

“What's the matter?” he asks, half impatient, half worried.

“Nothing,” Bilbo breathes out, seemingly transfixed by Thorin's chest, “oh, nothing.”

He reaches out, fingertips fluttering right above Thorin's heart, tracing the clavicle, nails lightly scratching, and Thorin forgets how to breathe, is afraid that if he does, the impossibly fragile connection will disappear. But then the halfling grows braver, thumb circling his nipple almost as if by accident while his other fingers revere the dark curls of hair not far by, and all air is stolen from Thorin in one shaky exhale, betraying his frailty.

Bilbo grins, pronouncing the dimples in his cheeks, and shakes his head as if in disbelief.

“My goodness,” he comments, and then he is pushing Thorin back yet again, and it is frighteningly easy to obey him and fall back on his elbows.

“Well, these just won't do,” Bilbo accuses his heavy boots, and goes about disposing of them, managing so impressively deftly.

He laughs in delight when he's done, and before Thorin can fully understand why, he exclaims: “No wonder you dwarves have to wear such monstrosities – I'd be worried a blade of grass might hurt me if I had such delicate little feet!”

“Delicate little – oh, by my beard, halfling. If I'd known you brought me up here to joke about the differences between the bodies of dwarves and hobbits, I would have let you consult Oin and one of his books instead.”

“That's big talk for someone with such useless little toes.”

“They're not _useless –_ what does one use toes _for,_ if not for walking?”

Bilbo laughs in absolute glee and climbs over, straddling Thorin without any warning whatsoever.

“Don't you try to argue about feet with a hobbit!” he all but wags his finger at Thorin, and the laughter that bubbles up from somewhere deep within his chest is of the unstoppable kind.

“Ridiculous creature.”

“That's rich, coming from you,” Bilbo frowns at him, but in the next second, they are laughing again together, and perhaps they are carving out this time for themselves from a reserve that is not theirs to tap into, and perhaps they are fooling themselves into assuming this is a good idea, but then again, when was the last time Thorin has laughed so genuinely, so much, in one night? He feels at ease, entirely at ease, after mere minutes, and surely there must be some good omen in that.

His hands slide up Bilbo's thighs ever so slowly, gaze locked on his face to take note of any sign of protest, but the halfling's smile merely quirks into something more sultry and he bends down to plant his lips to Thorin's once again. However, that turns out to be only a stepping stone in Bilbo's explorations, his mouth sealing to Thorin's jaw, then, oddly enough, his shoulder, only to travel the line of his collarbone to his neck. Thorin huffs, baring it further, his own hands embarking on a curious expedition up and down Bilbo's back as he repositions himself, quickly finding the best place to set camp – the soft curves of pudge right above the burglar's hipbones, below his waist, shaped to fit perfectly in Thorin's hold.

He thinks if he just squeezed a little bit harder, reached further, he could envelop Bilbo's waist in his hands entirely, and it's a notion so disarming it makes his heart skip a beat.

Dreams and speculations become reality quite unwittingly then, because Bilbo bares his teeth against the crook of Thorin's shoulder where it joins his neck, and his automatic reaction is to dig his fingers into soft skin, making the halfling yelp and giggle before he resumes his work. His body now rests a pleasant feeble weight on Thorin's torso, his legs framing his sides, and the dwarf senses a pool of warmth stirring low in his gut. As if reading his mind, Bilbo shuffles lower and when first he rolls his hips against him, Thorin rumbles appreciatively, gripping tighter with a clearer purpose now.

Blue eyes darkened by lust peer up at him and Bilbo rocks again, and again, slowly and thoroughly, desire sending tingles up Thorin's spine like lightning every time their cocks brush, separated by nothing more than two measly layers of fabric.

Passion isn't an unknown to him, but he's not used to catering to it beyond finding a warm body every other decade to fill some momentary need... and how is this different, exactly? _Is it_ any different, or is he just hoping in vain that this might mean to the halfling what it means to him?

“If at any point you want to... stop...” the uncertain words are carried on a shaky exhale when he manages to steal some breath away amidst their kisses, and Bilbo _does_ stop, but his eyes aren't surprised, or relieved, or any of the emotions Thorin fully expects to parry.

No, he looks on him almost... offended?

“Stop?” he repeats quietly, curiously, “is that what you want? For me to leave you hanging _right now?_ ”

He accentuates the last two words by rolling his hips with particular diligence, and Thorin's eyes flicker shut, seemingly his whole body pleading with him to just give in.

“What I _want,_ ” he succeeds at saying somewhat steadily, convincing himself that his hands on the burglar's hips are there simply to secure him in place, “is to be certain that you're not... not doing anything against your will, or...”

Bilbo's laughter seems more joyful every time he hears it tonight, and he simply sits up, further back on Thorin's thighs, his hands halting on their journey from his shoulders across his chest, pressed warm and soft and small on his stomach, and Thorin wonders if he can feel his muscles ripple and dance, wonders if he _knows_ what his touch is doing to him-

“ _My_ will?” he chuckles, and his fingers hurry to the fly of Thorin's trousers, the lacing surrendering to them quite quickly, “I'm the one who led you here in the first place, am I not? I must admit, I did entertain the idea of pursuing one of the Men instead-”

Thorin huffs indignantly, and Bilbo giggles, eyebrows arching high, but never takes his eyes off his work.

“I'm joking, joking. No appeal there for me whatsoever, I'm afraid. Though not for a lack of eagerness, I must admit...”

“Imagining a Man in my place is not exactly setting the right sort of mood,” Thorin warns him, and only receives more laughter.

“My apologies. I would not desire anyone else in your place.”

_That_ succeeds at making Thorin reconsider his next words, and still he searches the halfling's face for any hint of jest, but finds none, simply a soft smile and a gaze pointed dutifully downward, to where he still seems to be enjoying unlacing Thorin's trousers as slowly as possible.

“Nor would I – _ahh,_ ” Thorin starts out tender and finishes with a surprised gasp when Bilbo's hand dives past the straining fabric, an unexpected sensation against the softest of his skin.

“Well, good,” Bilbo grins, biting his lip as he frees Thorin's cock from its confinement, “it would seem that we are stuck in each other's company tonight... Oh, sweet Eru.”

“Please tell me you're not going to laugh about dwarven anatomy again,” Thorin groans.

“Oh, laughter is the last thing on my mind, believe me,” the halfling says reverently, and wastes no time explaining – simply tugs at the hem of Thorin's trousers until he budges, helping him dispose of them, his heart tolling like a bell. He's not used to... being taken care of like this, ordered around and laid out for the taking, especially not by someone outwardly much weaker than him, someone he could probably pin down and render immobile with one hand if he so pleased...

His yelp when Bilbo takes his cock in hand  _and_ presses his lips to the head at the same time is entirely undignified, body tensing, his head hitting the pillow with a dull thud the next second when Bilbo  _hums_ happily, and squirms for a better position, ordering Thorin's legs further apart, his tongue...  _Mahal,_ his tongue already working wonders.

In a split second of delirium, Thorin remembers Dwalin's words,  _are you afraid he'll scare off when he sees the size of you?_ , and discovers with utter amazement that Bilbo is  _everything but_ scared, really. His lips stretch around Thorin's girth with vigor, not even bothering to take him more than halfway in, working where it's most desired anyway. The  _sounds_ he makes are out of this world, contented puffs of breath through his nose, each carrying the edge of a moan, his hand servicing where his mouth cannot reach. Thorin can't but  shut his eyes tight, hands gripping at the sheets, every muscle in his body tensing, clenching, only to relax tenfold, again and again until he writhes, unsteady breathing transformed into something much less reserved, choked groans commending the halfling's efforts.

Some part of him is almost anxious to do it, but he gives in anyway, fingers tangling in Bilbo's curls, cupping both sides of his head ever so carefully, as if it is the most fragile thing – but all his cautiousness is gone when the halfling decides to reward that with swiftly finding a better angle and taking him in as deep as he'll go without much ado. Thorin groans, grabbing fistfuls of Bilbo's hair, hips bucking up quite involuntarily, and he'd be perfectly ready to apologize for his harsh treatment if it weren't for the absolutely delicious needy whimper that Bilbo comments on all of it with.

Too far beyond any sensible line of reasoning, Thorin decides to explore further,  his hold firmer, brushing the halfling's hair away from his forehead, thumbs soothing and nails scratching at his scalp, and he seems to be going in the right direction, because Bilbo produces what can only be described as the most satisfied purr, and attends to his business with increasing enjoyment.

His hand moves from its comfortable position, resting gently on Thorin's inner thigh, and travels to acquaint itself with his jewels, teasing and groping, enticing many a sound Thorin had been almost sure he couldn't produce anymore. But that only seems to be the first step, the tip of Bilbo's finger soon teasing much lower – a shuddering gasp is Thorin's response to that, and Bilbo eases off, granting him a curious look-over. He must be satisfied and reassured by what he sees, because a smile is firmly in place on his lips, puffed and wet and reddened now, before he sinks to cover Thorin's nethers in feather-light kisses, slow and attentive. He takes Thorin's balls in his mouth as well, one by one, licking and sucking, until the dwarf's fingers are tugging at his hair in what must no doubt be a painful need.

Yet another embarrassing sound crosses Thorin's lips when the tip of Bilbo's tongue travels even lower, and even though his body is completely unused to the sensation, his legs fall wider apart automatically and he bares himself for the eager burglar.

“Mahal's hammers, halfling,” he groans, the warm wetness of Bilbo's deft tongue where it's least expected sending tingles up his body and building up wondrous tension in his gut.

He receives a ticklish chuckle in response, and Bilbo proceeds to unravel him with an intensity and a diligence Thorin never would have expected, but succumbs to completely nonetheless, simply because his own body doesn't even give him a choice. It is unlike anything he has ever done or felt before, the beast of lust in his belly squirming and stretching, begging for more and more attention, his hands pressing the halfling's head closer with no regard for his comfort whatsoever. Much to Thorin's luck, Bilbo's appetite seems to be insatiable, and he licks his way into him seemingly without requirements for either air or any kind of pause – it occurs to Thorin, as he catches a glimpse of the tip of Bilbo's ear amidst his bobbing curls, that the burglar he is, he simply enjoys stealing away sound after improbable sound from Thorin.

The thought doesn't shame him, but it does make him more... aware, and he flings his arm over his face, in a very feeble attempt to quieten his pleasure. It's as if Bilbo takes it as a personal offense, because he concentrates his efforts even more thoroughly, his tongue aided by his finger out of the blue, and a short shout escapes the King under the Mountain. Bilbo's muffled giggle must mean he is pleased with the outcome, but as quick as the wonderful pressure came, it is gone again, and much to Thorin's dismay, Bilbo comes up for air at long last.

“I could do this all night, I think,” he declares, looking positively giddy, and Thorin wants to ask him, _will you?,_ but it is obvious that the halfling has his own ideas about his next steps, and Thorin would be a fool to meddle.

Bilbo doesn't allow him much room to do anything else but watch, anyway, because he climbs up to sit on his thighs astride once again, abandoning his cock heavy and flushed against his stomach. But watching is something Thorin is certainly satisfied with for now, because Bilbo makes a show of disposing of his shirt, pulling it up over his head slowly, revealing the soft curves of his torso, bare save for a faint trail of hair traveling from his bellybutton lower, disappearing under the hem of his breeches, still stubbornly in place.

Eyes wide with admiration, Thorin is seized by his need quite uncontrollably then, and puts his superior strength to use for the first time that night, sitting up in one sweeping move and steadying the beautiful creature in his lap. Bilbo yelps in surprise, but punches his shoulder lightly the next second, scolding him: “Very impatient.”

Thorin ignores him and claims that brash mouth in a wet kiss, cherishing the little needy moan Bilbo spices it up with when their erections are pressed together as their hips grind, in a rhythm neither of them has ever had the chance to rehearse, but that feels incredibly natural nonetheless.

His skin is searing hot and softer than a child's under his exploring touch, and Thorin craves more of him, all of him.

It is a blind desire that makes him lift the halfling up and put him on his back under him, but this is Thorin's most basic instinct telling him what to do, and he knows trusting it is the right decision when Bilbo doesn't even protest, simply spreads his legs to make room for him, tiny hands on his shoulders bringing him closer, closer still, until their lips are joined again.

But even those, Thorin desires elsewhere now. He explores, hungrily perhaps, sealing his mouth to dips and crevices, soft curves and sharper angles, jaw, neck, collarbone, breast... The halfling is much more vocal than him, commenting on his progress joyfully to say the least, humming and gasping quietly but consistently, his hands balling into fists in Thorin's hair and unclenching again, urging him on.

Like a starved animal in pursuit of prey, Thorin finally arrives where he means to, and almost growls unhappily when he meets with resistance in the form of Bilbo's trousers – he'd completely forgotten they were still there.

“Off,” Bilbo commands him breathlessly, and he is about to comply, but then he glances up and sees his need mirrored in the halfling's gleaming eyes, and decides that no, not just yet.

He gropes the bulge and Bilbo's hips buck up eagerly, but he keens when Thorin mouths at it, barely brushing, baring his teeth against the taut fabric, never enough friction, never enough.

“You – confound you, get on with it!” Bilbo cries, squirming under him.

“ _I'm_ impatient?” Thorin grumbles a mischievous laugh, and Bilbo exclaims in desperation, his own fingers racing to take care of the lacing of the breeches, but Thorin bats them away, tending to the job himself.

Bilbo's cock peeks out and perks up, surrounded by impossibly faint, light brown curls, and Thorin hurries to take his trousers off completely, tossing them aside and returning to his duties quickly, perhaps worried that Bilbo might get away in the meantime.

But no, there he is, spread out before him, an absolutely exquisite sight, his perfectly proportionate sex begging for attention between his legs open wide, and Thorin is ravenous for it, and there is no earthly reason why he should not sate that hunger.

He suspects he doesn't possess the hobbit burglar's finesse, but he does his best to make up for that in thoroughness – he has no reservations about swallowing him whole, the tip of his nose raking the damp hairs at the base, and Bilbo cries out once again, 'Oh – _oh!_ ', and digs his nails into Thorin's scalp, rolling into his mouth. Clearly a bit of rough treatment is much appreciated, and Thorin's own cock twitches, reminding him of its presence, when first he chokes on Bilbo's a little bit, fuming through his nose to make up for it, hands all over the halfling's chest to keep him at least a bit still.

“I'm-oh! I'm going to...”

He isn't given a second to consider that he may have gotten his planning vastly wrong, not even a second to try and pull off – Bilbo's grip in his locks is much firmer than those tiny hands have any right holding, and his back arches, sending his whole body convulsing against the sheets and thus Thorin, and he reaches his climax with a loud, contented call of  _ahh!,_ spilling into Thorin's mouth before he can so much as blink. He swallows because he isn't really given a choice, but the second he is free to move, he hoists himself up and glares at the halfling incredulously.

“Already?!” he all but complains, wiping his mouth, and Bilbo stretches like a cat in a beam of sunlight, groaning in complete bliss, before he opens one eye to look at him.

“It's the beard,” he says simply, as if it is enough of an explanation, _or_ an excuse.

“But,” Thorin exhales.

“But what?”

“That's... it? That's it? You're done?”

“ _Done?_ ” Bilbo bursts into laughter, scrambling to sit up himself, “I'm only just getting started!”

Thorin simply stares at him, this impossible incomprehensible being, who now looks so deliciously debauched, cheeks red hot and hair a right mess, but still somehow manages to laugh at everything, and it takes him a very long time before his head even begins coming up with an assessment of the situation.

“You can... More than once?” he asks dumbly, and that brings _even more_ laughter, and it turns out that not one single aspect of this is what Thorin has ever imagined it to be. It is... refreshing?

“Well, what fun would it be otherwise?” Bilbo says, then frowns at him, “you can't?”

“Not... not like this, no,” Thorin mumbles a bit unsteadily, “not in any sort of... quick succession, anyway. It takes... longer. Definitely.”

“We'll see,” is Bilbo's straightforward decision, and he accompanies that by a wink and a kind, but somehow firm, “come here.”

Still largely baffled, Thorin obliges, crawling over, and the halfling brings his hand to his cheek, thumb stroking at his lips, and he seems transfixed by the sight for a good long while, kissing him deeply with a forlorn look in his eye, and the bitter, but not unwelcome taste of him returns to Thorin through that kiss.

Nowhere near finishing himself, he grinds his hips almost unwittingly, and Bilbo giggles at that as well, sucking at Thorin's tongue and moving his hands to grope his arse, a rather dizzying combination.

“We need something if we want to proceed,” the halfling mumbles, a great achievement considering Thorin has no mind to let him speak at all, “just... let me.”

And he wriggles from underneath Thorin surprisingly quickly, leaving a terrible cold behind – the dwarf groans in great exasperation and slumps into the sheets, uttering almost sadly: “Where are you going? Come back here.”

“You _are_ the impatient one,” Bilbo chuckles from across the room, too far for Thorin's liking, “as much as I want this... all of it, I suspect I'll also want to be able to walk straight tomorrow.”

Thorin muffles a mewl in the nearest pillow and finally finds enough strength to turn over, just to see what the infuriating halfling is going on about now, only to see him waving a tiny corked bottle of what can only be one thing at him, almost triumphantly. Thorin frowns.

“Where on earth did you get that?”

“Turns out the great Laketown City Hall hides many a secret,” Bilbo replies vaguely, and Thorin isn't in any sort of mindset to ask any more questions – he merely rolls over to his back again, propping himself up on his elbows, waiting to see Bilbo's next move.

There is something to be said about the effortlessness with which they've been carrying this out, the almost familiar nature of their intimacy, as if this is anything but their first time together, but he isn't in the mindset for weaving difficult descriptions either. No, he's pleasantly warm and very much in need, and that's that.

His hand travels to his own long-neglected cock, stroking rather lazily as Bilbo climbs back up on the bed, seemingly unperturbed by the sight before him.

“That is very nice to look at indeed, but were you going to help me here?” he comments as if they're standing over a stove preparing dinner, or some such thing, and Thorin inclines his head.

“What can I do for you, Master hobbit?” he slurs, and Bilbo tsk-tsks, sitting back on his heels.

“Well, as... flexible as I am, I'm afraid I can't just go ahead and take you in just like that. Besides as anyone with a pair of eyes can see, one of your fingers is about the size of two of mine, and, well, if you can't yet see where I'm heading with this...”

His voice dies off on its own because Thorin gets up and closer, rolling on top of him and pinning him down, one arm around that frail torso, kissing him thoroughly before murmuring: “I can see where you're heading. Give me that.”

“Good,” Bilbo sighs very pleasurably, letting Thorin pry the bottle away from him and lying back, spreading his legs once again and baring himself just like Thorin had done not so long ago. He is soft and round and inviting, and Thorin takes his time with him, so that by the time he finally devotes his attention to the puckered muscle of his entrance, Bilbo is begging him for it, if not by words then by the language of his body, squirming and gasping, sweet exclamations of lust.

_It's the beard,_ he remembers, and thus puts it to good use, casting all gentleness aside and assaulting the halfling where he's most sensitive, tongue unraveling him sloppily while his scruff bothers the tender skin everywhere around.

“Oh, Thorin-! Please, yes, I – _ahh!_ ” the halfling cries and convulses under his care, and Thorin understands then, all the benefits and enjoyment of listening to the elated symphony of his pleasure, especially knowing he's the one who's been making him sing so.

He indulges himself for a while longer, but that only feeds his hunger further – soon, he withdraws, much to Bilbo's loudly-voiced displeasure, only to return with his index finger dipped in the foreign oil, smearing it with great care, his mouth going dry at the sight of Bilbo's body twitching and squirming under his attention.  Utterly transfixed, Thorin splays his hand on the halfling's stomach, thumb tracing circles over the soft curve of it, and Bilbo's eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and darkened by desire, only to be shut tight the next second when Thorin dares push his finger inside him.

Bilbo whines and his torso arches up and off the sheets, and Thorin is almost afraid then that he is hurting him, but a blissful smile quirks his burglar's lips soon, and short, delicious moans escape him as he adjusts to the intrusion. Still, he feels like he must hold him in place, his thumb continuing to rub his belly soothingly as he moves within him. It is a display Thorin feels near unworthy of, Bilbo rolling his hips needily, legs splayed apart, a rosy blush tinting his cheeks, his fingers sliding into his own mouth as if to mirror Thorin's actions, only to journey to his nipple, toying with it gently – there is no doubt that the halfling knows exactly how to achieve his own  _comfort,_ and that he's decided to share some of that knowledge with Thorin is a blessing, really.

_Let us pretend that we have all the time in the world._ Thorin would give anything to be captured in this moment for good, he thinks. Wanting to prolong it as much as possible, he bats Bilbo's hand away when it travels to his cock, and the halfling whimpers, but giggles soon and obliges, little fists clenching in the sheets.

Not entirely clueless in this endeavor, Thorin crooks his finger in the impossible tightness and Bilbo cries out lovely affirmations soon enough – having forgotten earlier, Thorin now reaches for the nearest pillow and positions it tenderly under the small of Bilbo's back, to afford himself a better angle for his explorations. Soon enough, the halfling fails rather epically to stay still  _or_ quiet,  only to cease all movement abruptly when Thorin taunts him with a second finger.

“Go – _ahh..._ Go on, go on,” Bilbo answers a question Thorin hadn't had the time to ask, his face contorted in immense concentration – Thorin affords him time, pushing in only very cautiously, more oil to ease the way, and seeing the relief painted clear across Bilbo's face as his body accepts him, is just... Overwhelmed by need, Thorin bows down to take his cock in his mouth, the tenderest of kisses, his fingers finding their way inside Bilbo with utmost care.

But soon, much enticed by the halfling's loud adoration, Thorin begins his work in earnest, only holding Bilbo in place as he picks up tempo bit by bit.

“More,” the burglar demands soon, breathlessly but clearly, “more!”

“You...” Thorin growls, “give it more time... Frail little thing...”

“Frail?!” Bilbo exclaims almost indignantly, “stop – _oh!_ Stop worrying about _frail,_ and... _ungh,_ have your way with me already!”

Thorin's gut twitches and sings praises at that suggestion, but he merely groans in disagreement, holding Bilbo firmer and pressing a third finger in – the halfling cries out in delight, but whatever resistance Thorin had anticipated dissolves almost unnaturally swiftly, and the feeling of  _three_ of his fingers sliding in and out with so much ease almost costs Thorin all his leftover control.

“Come now,” Bilbo murmurs sweetly, his hips rolling onto Thorin's hand, that deft tongue flicking out to wet his lips, “take me.”

It's equal parts an order and a plea, and Thorin cannot resist anymore – Bilbo hisses when he withdraws, but his eyes are large and eager and excited, and after Thorin finds the bottle of oil, he is granted the rather disarming image of the halfling rolling onto his stomach and perking his buttocks up for the taking, wetness trickling down his thighs. Thorin keens and strokes himself back into full gear,  slickness easing the way, and when he speaks next, his voice is barely recognizable even to him, ragged and husky with the near blinding need: “Turn back around.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” Bilbo mumbles, wriggling for a better, even more open position, and any and all restraint leaves Thorin right there and then.

He snarls and uses the element of surprise to get a grip on the halfling's hips, rolling him over to his back – Bilbo is all ready to complain, or possibly to laugh some more, but the time for joking is over, as far as Thorin is concerned.

“I would gaze upon your face,” he says simply, sternly, and Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but it's as if Thorin's words humble him somehow – his lips apart in mute wonder, he merely nods and makes room for Thorin's body where it requires it.

Adding even more oil just to be safe, Thorin guides the head of his cock in the only right direction, pressing on gently but not without determination, and Bilbo's high-pitched gasp is quickly transformed into an unsteady moan, shaky huffs of breath like milestones for Thorin's progress.

The King clenches his jaw, shuts his eyes against the tightness, willing himself to go as slow as possible, groaning loudly at the effort – Bilbo might be brave and eager beyond measure, but that doesn't change the fact that his body is hardly accustomed or even supposed to accept such intrusion without trouble.

“I – oh, sweet, dear Eru,” Bilbo sifts through grit teeth, and only then does Thorin brave looking at him, seeing what he already knows to be true – that the intensity of it all affects his little hobbit just as much as it affects him.

Bilbo is all but quivering, the line of his neck tense in its arch, fingers tugging at the sheets helplessly – Thorin exerts a gargantuan amount of effort to stay still for a while longer, hands traveling from Bilbo's legs to his belly, soothing and calming, mapping out every twitch and ripple of his muscles.  Still it is almost too soon when Thorin allows himself to thrust for the first time, as shallow as it is – a loud moan is ripped out of both of them, but it is beyond impossible to stop now.

Bilbo melts away under him, demanding _more,_ always more, and Thorin himself soon isn't satisfied – he needs _more_ of Bilbo as well, needs to be close enough so that every single one of the halfling's shivers sets his own skin tingling too, every single one of the sounds of delight slipping past his lips echoes in Thorin's own moans.

He lowers himself on to his elbows, the shifting position making them both breathless, and small hands succeed at the near impossible task of covering the span of his back, bringing him as close as possible. They drown in a thorough kiss, and the heat Thorin then sees in the halfling's blazing eyes, is the same one that rests in his own gut, he knows. He moves slowly, almost languidly, relishing the look on Bilbo's face, eyes rolling back, stark white teeth biting down on perfect lips, sweat glistening like beads of gold on his forehead. For that, he regains some of his restraint – it is worth the effort, rocking into him at a pace that is infuriatingly slow for both of them, but allows Thorin to capture every single detail, every single nuance of Bilbo's building pleasure.

_All the time in the world._ Thorin would so like to believe that – he  _needs_ all the time in the world to discover more, to learn every single trick written in the private book of Bilbo Baggins, study those diligently and put them to good use... He gazes into Bilbo's eyes amidst the swirling of heat and lust, and the heavy haze of it all is lifted for a short moment, and Thorin is granted a sighting of something rather vulnerable in the halfling's look, something eerily familiar.

“Bilbo,” he exhales, a tiny, broken gasp of a sound, and Bilbo smiles shortly, perfectly unraveled and yet somehow torn, as if a great ache resides somewhere deep within the contours of that beautiful face.

But Thorin won't be afforded any time to explore  _that_ tonight, as Bilbo brings him in for another kiss, wrapping his legs around his waist and urging him with a hoarse whisper: “Take me.”

And never even entertaining any other choice, Thorin obliges, but without any particular haste – he picks up pace bit by bit, Bilbo's body heaving against him with each calculated thrust, nails scraping at his back, hot, wet breath in puffs warming the crook of Thorin's neck. It is almost suffocating, the tension, the closeness, the strange scent of Bilbo's curls and skin, and the halfling wastes no time keeping quiet, assurances pouring from his lips in an almost steady murmur, praises in words and choked moans alike.

Thorin himself quivers and almost loses balance when the burglar's fingers travel into his mane, gathering it up and out of the way, the gentle tugging shooting a spike of pleasure like lightning down his spine.

Ever so intuitive, Bilbo understands perfectly and experiments, tugging harder.  A swear in  his language  escapes Thorin,  and his hips jerk forward with much less control and much more force, which in turn excites Bilbo – he  _ahh_ 's in delighted surprise, body arching up flush against Thorin's, beckoning him shakily, but firmly enough: “Come on.”

Thorin growls somewhat weakly, which is incentive enough for the halfling to wrap long tendrils of his hair around his hand and  _really_ pull – it's as if he just  _knows._ Thorin's snarl has hunger in it now, and it takes but one arm to envelop his burglar's torso and lift him up, bring him closer, allowing Thorin to really, really let go.

It is a boundless abandon that overcomes him, as his world shrinks to nothing but  _Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo,_ the furnace of his body, the softness of his skin melding with Thorin's own, the fantastic sounds he produces, the  hardly bearable friction of their coupling. His fingers rake through Thorin's hair urgently, his moaning quite unabashed now as he clings onto Thorin for dear life. Some less delirious part of the King's mind remembers how quick the halfling is to find the peak of his pleasure, and he growls, nose brushing at his neck, baring his teeth against its sensitivity: “Come. Come for me again.”

He signs his order off by thrusting as thoroughly as he can, remaining inside him for an excruciating moment before he repeats the same, and Bilbo lets out a squeaky groan, neck arching, fingers all but digging into Thorin's scalp.

It is like completing the most exquisite handiwork, driving Bilbo to the edge; like winning an easy but no less enjoyable match, the most satisfying achievement. He comes apart utterly and beautifully, hands traveling all over Thorin's body more and more frantically as he searches for  friction and a solid grip at the same time, hi s feeble frame all but thrashing in Thorin's hold. He finds his release at last with the most unrestrained, drawn out moan, his entire body taut like a bowstring, then sagging pliantly the next second as he spends himself out, Thorin's name gasped out in between thirsty breaths like the best commendation of his efforts.

“My goodness, you...” Bilbo sighs once he's calmed down a tad, and his legs disentangle from around Thorin's waist to lie limply, his hand barely managing to scratch the back of Thorin's neck feebly, before it moves lower to pat his arse in what must be great appreciation.

“Excellent,” the halfling chuckles, brushing sweat-drenched curls from his forehead, wriggling his hips, only to remind Thorin that he is everything but finished himself.

“Don't worry,” Bilbo murmurs, pulling him closer to cover his face in butterfly kisses, “I've some fighting spirit in me yet. A change of position would be nice, wouldn't you think?”

“Are all hobbits so... _ahh,_ eloquent after?” Thorin barely manages eloquence himself, disregarding his previous decision to stay put and pulling out gently enough, only ever receiving a small contented whimper from Bilbo.

“Only when we've had a very good time of it,” his burglar explains lightly, then rolls onto his stomach with a striking ease, making Thorin gulp dryly. The way he offers himself up...

“Can you...?” Thorin asks hoarsely, hands already traveling over the expanse of the hafling's back, the dip of his spine, “so soon after... I don't mean to hurt you.”

“Honestly, Your Majesty,” Bilbo sighs theatrically, turning to look at him, nothing but a joyful twinkle in his eye, “you worry yourself too much. I'm ready whenever you are.”

Though his entire being is all but vibrating with tension, Thorin takes a moment to admire the sight, Bilbo sprawled before him as if he's just taking a quick nap, arms bunching up the sheets under his head, a languorous smile on his face, eyes closed...  In a daze, Thorin guides his demanding cock between his cheeks, thrusting gently, and the halfling hums in quiet delight, his hips rocking up to meet him – utterly entranced, Thorin doesn't enter him yet, simply moves excruciatingly slowly, spreading his arse apart, eyes glued to his face...

“Tease,” Bilbo scolds him without any venom whatsoever, bucking up on his knees and reaching to stroke himself, a simple display of his apparently inexhaustible stamina, enough for Thorin to wake up and take matters – in this case Bilbo's waist – into his own hands again.

A breathless, voiceless gasp, a huff of all air leaving his  lungs , escapes the halfling when Thorin reenters him, and it feels as if he's forgotten the captivating heat of his body in the short time that they were apart – it steals Thorin's breath away as well.

He drives into Bilbo harder now, without really trying to – after the first few languid thrusts, the beast of his lust swiftly demands more, and Thorin listens to its needs obediently. Bilbo keens and sways forward with each slapping thrust, soon almost incapable of keeping himself up on his knees, and thus Thorin envelops his torso with one arm, holding him firmly in his place, flush against  his own chest.  Supporting them both, bent over the halfling and resting on one elbow, is a position that strains them both, but the sounds his burglar makes, broken little cries, are more than enough to ensure the continuation of Thorin's actions. His hips snap powerfully, his passing eased now as Bilbo is so very stretched out, and his senses are hopelessly ensnared by the burning tension now. He would murmur and snarl such things into the wanton creature's ears, but as it is, he can't but hiss and growl with the effort, shaking just as Bilbo shakes, their bodies moving as one now.

The joined weight of them overwhelms Thorin when he least expects it, but their rhythm is never lost – Bilbo presses his face into the sheets and uses up what must be some hidden reserves of his strength to stay somewhat upright on his knees, and Thorin grabs at his waist, thus given so much more room to set an even more punishing pace.

Hopelessly, helplessly overcome, Thorin gets a grip on Bilbo's shoulders soon, almost knocking them both off balance with each powerful movement. They've both been robbed of words, surrendering completely to the urgency, and in a possessiveness Thorin would surely curb at any other given time, his hand presses to the halfling's neck, fingers curling in his hair roughly, thumb imprinting the King's wild lust into the soft skin behind Bilbo's ear. He pulls the burglar's head to the side, and Bilbo doesn't complain in the slightest, mewling loudly, and thank Mahal for that – Thorin doesn't think he could have stopped even if he wanted to.

There are a very few things in his life he's ever been willing to give in to, but the passion roaring to be released, muddling his senses, reducing them to something primal, animal, is certainly one of them. Barely paying mind  to Bilbo stroking himself furiously, barely paying mind to anything at all, Thorin comes undone, a rough shout he quickly buries in the crook of Bilbo's neck, hips jerking forward a few more times as he spends himself into the halfling, the treacherous warmth of release sapping his muscles of all strength, and quickly.

He is thus very surprised when Bilbo's body convulses under his own, and he finds his... Mahal, his  _third_ climax that night, a debauched groan accompanying it, muffled into the ruined linen. Incapable of holding the both of them up a second longer, Thorin all but crushes Bilbo under his weight, enticing a  weak  shock ed huff, and then a feeble chuckle. Thorin's face spreads in quite the  unabashed grin itself, and their perfectly slotted bodies rock together languidly for a while longer, riding out the last waves of their orgasms.

Bilbo does complain when Thorin pulls out this time, but he has neither the strength nor the faintest intention of giving up the warmth between them – he simply moves to lie on his stomach beside Bilbo, his wrecked muscles barely allowing for anything more excessive than that, his arm still resting heavily across the halfling's back, and together, they merely breathe for the longest time, breathe and not much else.

Proving once again that the source of his energy is bottomless and possibly somehow unnatural, Bilbo stirs soon, but only to turn around and curl to Thorin's side, making him shift as well until they're one tangle of limp limbs once again, Bilbo using one of Thorin's arms as his pillow and wedging his thigh between his, latching onto him with no regard for the mess they've made, his perfect lips finding whatever patch of Thorin's sweaty skin they can  reach  and soothing it with kisses.

Thorin's fingers travel to find cozy refuge in the tendrils of the halfling's hair, and as they brush at his neck, Bilbo gasps quietly, and Thorin remembers.

“Did I hurt you?” he mumbles a barely intelligible worry, and can _feel_ the smile lighting up Bilbo's face, wondering if his hobbit can sense the leap his tired heart makes.

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” Bilbo murmurs.

Thorin finds enough strength to open his eyes and seek out Bilbo's, and back gazes a sated calm.

“That was very...”

“Mhm.”

Thorin finds that he is utterly parched, and the bath he'd taken alongside everyone else after they were let in tonight has somewhat gone to waste, but he can barely lift a finger, let alone walk anywhere. It will be a miracle if he wakes up capable of that tomorrow... tomorrow.

He knows he should be overcome with worry still, knows there is something else  he should be concentrating on  besides the soft pad of the halfling's thumb drawing lazy patterns on his back, but clarity of mind certainly isn't one of his active assets right now.  _All the time in the world,_ he is reminded once again, and he wants to thank Bilbo, thank him for making him believe it just this once, but he is rather worried there are no right words.

Perhaps there isn't even any right way to do this at all – Thorin doesn't know, and he cares not. All he knows that holding the halfling close, heartbeat against heartbeat, fills some emptiness within him, some unremarkable hollow spot that had been aching so subtly Thorin didn't even know it needed filling.

He feels... satisfied, for the first time in what might very well be centuries, sated and steady, safe in his conviction that  _this_ was a right thing to do. Having been accustomed to enduring failure and the consequences of ill decisions his whole life, the change is refreshing to say the least.

“Blanket,” Bilbo sighs as the warmth between them slowly begins to dissipate, and he is charming in the simplicity of his needs, reassuring in his lack of questions or demands, or doubts for that matter, and Thorin's discovers that _yes, blanket_ is about as far as his weary, weary mind will take him tonight.  It is a blessing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the important part is over now. I kid, I kid, it's just that I had some issues with splitting this thing, I didn't want to overwhelm you guys. The third chapter is close to finished now, I just thought I'd feel more obligated to actually finish it if I got the previous two out there. Stay tuned!


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